


Beautiful Trauma

by MissScorp



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Abusive subject material, Angst, Domestic Violence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Harley reflects on how she ended up in this situation, Introspective Harley Quinn, Offers of Help, Parallel Relationships, Unhealthy Relationships, Victimology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29370210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: How could I let this happen? Harley wondered as she lifted her hands to wipe away the moisture that trickled down her face. Even I don't understand how this happened. I wasn't a doormat when I first met him. I wasn't a big lump of clay just waitin’ for him to come and mold. Sure, I came from a dysfunctional family. I was well-educated, independent, on the road to success, a doctor at twenty-three. There'd been men in my life, some I wasn't as serious about as I was Guy, but all of 'em were normal, healthy enough relationships. Then I met Mistah J and somethin' went wrong. Terribly wrong. 'Cause there I was, manipulated and trapped within this mad love affair. Allowing myself to be humiliated and degraded. Lettin' myself be physically and sexually abused.And I dunno why.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Beautiful Trauma

Harley watched as the man lifted his hand to the doctor's — _Kean_ , she thought the woman's name was — face. It was the subtlest of movements, barely a turn of his wrist really, but it was enough to allow him to graze his fingers along the curve of the doc's cheek before sinking them into the springy curls dancing around her jawline.

Harley swore she could feel the tips of those long, graceful dactyls skimming over her own flesh, sliding into her hair, electrifying long-dead nerve endings and filling her with a sensation she thought to have forgotten: _longing_.

Her heart trembled as a tidal wave of memories crashed together inside her breast, unleashing a torrent of mental snapshots, all depicting lovers past who touched her as if she had been a delicate piece of porcelain that would shatter if they were anything less than gentle.

The man then used his fingers to oh-so-gently take possession of the doc's chin. His fingers left not a dent in the doc’s creamy flesh, but his hold was firm enough he was able to tilt her head up. She found herself thinking back to the one man, the only man, who ever looked at her with that same amount of tenderness, same burning desire, same love shining in the depths of his eyes.

Yearning formed deep in her heart. To peer into her puddin's sparkling gaze and see it filled with the same emotions so alive in this man's. She watched him lower his head and take the doc's lips with his own. There was no mashing of lips here, no grinding of teeth against tender flesh, oh no. This was a lover's kiss, meant to stir the soul, warm the blood, and flutter the heart.

She could hardly remember the last time when a man kissed her and it wasn't meant as a reminder of what her place was in his life, as a means of humiliation and domination, as a revolting token of appreciation for some sick thing she helped him do. It made her hunger to again feel that spark snap inside her, warm and bright. She wanted to feel alive again. Chilled where his breath blew across her moist flesh. Hot in the belly where things like desire began.

She'd never have a lover touch her as if she was made of the finest crystal, though.

Never hear them convey their undying love and affection for her while staring deep into her eyes.

Never have them warm her with a kiss so sweet and gentle that it would make her want to cry.

Because she gave all that up when she allowed herself to fall hopelessly in love with a murdering slime ball in a cheap, purple merino suit. She gave up her career, her identity, every possibility there might have been for happiness, and every right to having her wants and needs met so she could become what her puddin' wanted her to become: his Harlequin.

By placing her heart, as well as her body, into the hands of that pasty-faced slime, she ensured she would never again know the sweet taste of love or the wondrous rapture of romance. She was nothing but a sex toy to a madman, a dolly he could get rid of once he had grown tired of playing with her.

A dolly he had casually thrown away countless times before.

A dolly he willingly sacrificed in order to save his own neck.

A dolly he callously said he could replace at the drop of a hat.

A dolly he insinuated he had had numerous incarnations of throughout the years.

The arrow that pierced Harley's heart was one poisoned by all the anger, regret, and hurt she locked away inside herself.

_How could I let this happen_? she wondered as she lifted her hands to wipe away the moisture that trickled down her face. _Even I don't understand how this happened. I wasn't a doormat when I first met him. I wasn't a big lump of clay just waitin’ for him to come and mold. Sure, I came from a dysfunctional family. I was well-educated, independent, on the road to success, a doctor at twenty-three. There'd been men in my life, some I wasn't as serious about as I was Guy, but all of 'em were normal, healthy enough relationships. Then I met Mistah J and somethin' went wrong. Terribly wrong. 'Cause there I was, manipulated and trapped within this mad love affair. Allowing myself to be humiliated and degraded. Lettin' myself be physically and sexually abused._

_And I dunno why._

'Youse know why youse are in this situation,' a voice that sounded like a younger version of herself said with just a trace of the bitterness curdling in her belly. 'Youse know youse let yourself become Mistah J's plaything. Youse allowed yourself ta believe his lies, ta fall for his manipulation, ta become trapped in his spell. Youse just tryin' ta avoid acceptin' the blame for being a dumb ass.'

_I ain't a dumb ass._

'Do youse blame yourself or Mistah J for every bit of our unhappiness, misery and self-hatred? Nope. You blame the B-Man.' She heard a delicate little sniff. 'Youse a dumb ass.'

Her younger self was right. She was a dumb ass. She kept blaming Bats for everything wrong in her life and the truth was that it was all _her_ fault. She allowed herself to become manipulated, molded, and misused. She chose to stay despite having B-Man and Ivy both offer to help her leave once and for all. She laughed softly, but the sound came out as more of a low, keening wail. She couldn't blame Bats. Not when it was her that had so completely ruined her life. Not when she rejected every offer the Bats made about getting her out of this mad love affair she found herself trapped in.

_How often has Bats said he'd help me and I just laughed in his face? Or responded by unleashing a barrage of bullets on him_?

The answer came back as: hundreds. Thousands. Millions by that point. She wasn't sure how often it was anymore. All she knew was that she denied him at every turn, kicked him in the teeth whenever he extended a helping hand to her, and tossed his offer back in his face with a sneer and a laugh.

_And still he offers to help me._

She wasn't sure which of them was crazier.

She glanced up and saw that the doc and her boyfriend were approaching where she sat waiting to be escorted back to her cell. The man's arm was curved possessively around the doc's trim waist, his hand resting lightly upon the curve of her hip. Harley bit her lip, tasted fear and shame and her own blood. And a terrible ring of envy.

Oh, how she wished that there was a man such as this one to love her! How happy she'd be if she had a man like this to call her own! A man who was tall and darkly handsome. Who was surrounded by an aura of sophisticated danger; dripped with enigmatic intrigue. A man, she decided, hazarding a look into that electric blue gaze, who was capable of touching his woman without hurting her, of making love to her without needing to leave behind bruises, of holding her without causing her pain.

"Youse a real lucky gal, Doc Kean.”

She figured they’d just continue past her, ignoring her as most of the orderlies, guards and Asylum docs tended to do. Then the doc stopped and turned, enveloping her in a gaze that sparked with warmth and compassion, and which was ripe with sympathy and understanding.

"You're right, Miss Quinn.” Her voice was like crushed velvet. Soft and smooth. "I am lucky." Her gaze slid to the man at her side. "My husband might have a few quirks, he might even have a few dysfunctions we gotta iron out, and he can have a helluva temper at times. But," she stated in a soft voice, "he's never smacked me."

"And I never will.” The man’s voice reminded Harley of single-malt whiskey. It skittered along her nerve endings, fraying them even more. "Real men don't smack their woman around."

_Harleen Quinzel_ tasted the sting of regret at the same time hatred simmered deep down in _Harley Quinn’s_ soul.

"I can't make you say you want out of this toxic relationship you’re trapped in.”

“I gotta do it for myself.”

“Yes, you do. However…” Doc reached into her jacket pocket and took out a business card she pressed into Harley’s quivering hand. “If you reach a point where you've had enough and want help? Call me. Day or night. Rain or shine. I will answer that call, Harley.” Doc’s tone was like tempered steel. "And I will help you leave when you’re ready."

They were the same words B-Man said to her. Words she always refuted, tossed back in his face, scoffed at, reacted to with violence. Harley stared at the card in her hand. Doc Kean’s cell and home number were scrawled at the bottom with two simple words: _Call me_.

Harley’s lip trembled. She looked back up into the Doc’s staggering face, seeing no hate or malice inside those cat-like eyes, just quiet understanding and sympathy. At that moment she realized how easy it’d be to reach out, to ask the Doc to help her get away from the slime she devoted so much of herself too. Niggles of suspicion tugged at her, though, and a small kernel of doubt begged her to ask the Doc one single, solitary question: "How come youse being sa nice ta me? I ain't never been nothin' but trouble for youse."

"Because I know what it’s like to find yourself trapped in hell and abused by the devil."

"Youse?" Harley heard the disbelief in her voice, and even while it shamed her, she did not apologize for it. It just didn't seem possible to her that this pampered princess could have ever suffered anything worse than a broken nail.

"I know all about the pain, shame, and anger you are feeling. I know about the fear, the desperation, the doubts, and the humiliation."

"How?" she demanded. "How do youse know?"

"Because I lived with an abuser, too." Bitterness rippled in every word. “I called him father, in fact. Until the day he murdered my mother and tried to kill me, too.”

Shock crashed over Harley at that revelation. For a few seconds she could do nothing but gape at the Doc. _She gets it,_ she realized. _Unlike these other putzes, she understands. She ain't judging me for what's happened ta me ‘cause it’s happened to her, too._

Tears threatened. Were ruthlessly rejected. She cried enough for that creep. Suffered enough at his hands. She only had to tell this woman she was ready, she was done, and it would be all over. She'd be whisked away to a place where there was no more pain, no more humiliation and degradation, no more regrets.

_And no more Mistah J_...

That brought reality crashing back around her.

If she took this woman’s offer, she’d never again get to see her puddin’..

"Th--tha--thanks," she said slowly. "But..."

"You're not ready." No heat. No censure. Just quiet understanding that hurt worse than Mistah J’s fist. "Right?"

"No."

It was a shame-laced whisper. Doc understood, though. She didn't like it, Harley could see that she didn't, but she accepted that this was how it was. At least, for the moment.

"You’ll be ready one day.” The Doc rose to her feet in a rustle of silk a lovely shade of blue. A faint hint of jasmine wafted over to remind Harley of summers spent in the garden at her grandmother’s. It was another reminder of the girl she had been before she sold her soul. "And when you are ready, I will be there to help you." Her smile was as gentle as her voice. "I promise you that, Harley. I will be there to help you."

Harley found she believed her.

"Thank you.”

She found she meant it. She was appreciative of everything the Doc said, of everything she offered. It was so rare for anybody in this place to show her even an ounce of compassion. Even less she'd find herself willing to accept it.

"You're welcome." Doc turned to one of the guards standing nearby. "Hey, Frank, can you escort Miss Quinn back to her cell?"

"Certainly, Doctor Kean.” Frank Boles grabbed Harley's arm and hauled her to her feet. "Let's go, Quinn."

Harley went to punch the bozo in his leering face, but stopped when the doc spoke.

"You will treat Miss Quinn with the respect she deserves, Frank, or else you'll be finding your ass written up on charges."

"Sure thing, Doc," the guard tossed back flippantly. "Whatever ya say."

"I'd watch that smart mouth, Boles," the man beside the doc growled. "Or you'll find me digging into the accusations made against you."

Boles just glared at the two before leading a stunned Harley away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, and welcome! Harley Quinn is a wholly complex and fascinating character who I don’t feel gets the love she rightly deserves despite being one of DCs most popular characters. She has multiple layers to her that make her wonderfully complex and tragic. 
> 
> If you like this piece, please kudo it. Thanks for reading and take care!


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